'The informal census last year showed that we now have a population of two hundred ninety-one thousand eight hundred, and I assure you, it will double before the next one conies round. And if we strike oil big, as some are predicting, it could quadruple.
We already have the most beautiful state in the Union and the one with the greatest potential for growth. I can see no end to what Alaska might become. But to get it started on the right path, we simply must get our land problems straightened out, and no part of that problem is more complicated than finding a way to assure our Native people their right to the lands they've always occupied.'
At this point a senator asked: 'Miss Murphy? It is Miss Murphy, isn't it?"and she replied: 'It sure is.'
'Tell us, Miss Murphy, are you a Native? Do you stand to gain if we allot land to the Natives?'
She laughed, the free and easy chuckle that might have come from any one of her Alaskan ancestors, and she was remarkably attractive as she leaned forward to help the senators:
'In the curious mixing way that operates in Alaska, I would be considered half Native.
One grandfather was an Irish prospector on the Yukon. He found nothing. The other was a crazy Siberian who sought gold in Nome. He found a beach full of it. One grandmother was of English derivation, the other was Eskimo. Me? I'm Alaskan, and because my Siberian grandfather did find that gold, I can afford to be disinterested where my personal land rights are concerned, but I'm vitally concerned about land rights for others.' At this point the chairman had to rebuke the spectators for cheering.
'Of our total population, thirteen percent can be classified as Native, and they're roughly divided into Indians, Eskimos and Aleuts. But in Alaskan Native life, nothing is ever simple, because the Indians, who should properly be called Athapascans, are divided into various groups, one of the most important being the Tlingits. The Eskimos are also divided, Inupiat and Yup'ik. And even the Aleuts fall into two classes, the original Aleuts from the islands, the self-styled Aleuts from the mainland.'
When one of the senators asked: 'And what are you?' she said: 'My Eskimo grandmother was certainly a Yup'ik. My Siberian grandfather? Now there we have a nice problem.
His ancestors way back must have been Athapascan stock. Later on they could have been progenitors of the Inupiat. And if you look far enough back into my English ancestors, God knows what you'll find. I like to think I'm part Pict.' Here the audience laughed quietly, but soon broke into guffaws as she concluded:
'Let's say I'm properly mixed. If I was a dog, you'd call me Rover and be damned pleased to have me.
'So Alaska has eight main Native groups four Indian, two Eskimo, two Aleut and we live together rather easily. By and large, any solution you come up with . must apply equitably to all, and I assure you that the various groups will be prepared to accommodate, even though some of the small particulars might go against their own peculiar traditions.
The basic problem? The Natives must have land. Next basic? They must be protected in their ownership until such time, maybe by some year in the next century like 2030, that they can make decisions about their land without these protections.'
At the end of her testimony one senator asked the question which perplexed them all:
'Miss Murphy, have you testified here today as a Native or as a non-Native?' and she replied: 'As I told you, gentlemen, I'm half and half. When I took my oath to tell you the truth I was mindful that Alaska is eighty-seven percent ordinary Caucasian just like you, thirteen percent Native like the pure Eskimos and Athapascans. Your job is to find a solution that will enable both groups to move ahead in security and hope.'
The Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act of 1971 (ANCSA) was one of the more intricate and unprecedented bits of legislation to emerge from the American Congress, and its bountiful provisions were due primarily to the fact that the American people suffered from a guilt complex because of the shabby way they had treated their Indians. They were now determined to do better with their Alaskan Natives. It was a collection of laws of which the American people could be proud ... as those laws were understood in 1971. ANCSA was not a solution for the ages, but it was a generous step forward at that time.
Alaska contained 586,412 square miles an area 2.19 times larger than Texas for a total of 375,303,680 acres. Of these the Natives were to be given 44,000,00012 percent of all Alaska plus a cash settlement of $962,500,000. So far so good. But to accomplish some of the goals Melody Murphy had espoused, and particularly to prevent extravagant behavior during the euphoria when Natives gained their own land, the vast acreage would not be distributed to them individually but would be delivered into the hands of twelve huge Native corporations located regionally so as to apportion the entire state among them, plus a remarkable thirteenth corporation to include all Alaskan Natives living outside the state and therefore not attached to any specific area of land.
Every Alaskan Native born before 1971 and living anywhere in the world would thus be assigned membership in one of the thirteen huge corporations and receive papers entitling him or her to a proportionate ownership of that particular corporation.
For example, Melody Murphy, resident in Juneau, became a shareholder in the powerful Sealaska Corporation, one of the best managed and also favored in the quality of the land it received. Vladimir Afanasi up in remote Desolation Point became part owner of the vast Arctic Slope Regional Corporation with an acreage larger than many states. An interesting provision covered the corporation focusing on the heavily settled Anchorage area, for there most of the best lands had already passed into private ownership; the Native leaders here were allowed by Congress to select comparable government-owned lands in widely scattered parts of the United States, so that an Eskimo living in a village near Anchorage might find himself part owner of a federal building in Boston or an unused warehouse in Honolulu.
Land had been returned to the Natives, but individually they did not receive it, two provisions of the act governing this: no land accruing to the corporation could be sold or mortgaged or alienated prior to 1991, but on the other hand, no taxes could be collected from it by the state. Congress believed that this twenty-year dormant period would provide the Natives with time to master the intricacies of managing their assets in contemporary American society. It was hoped by all and predicted by some that during these two decades the Natives would prosper so outstandingly that at the end of the tutelage period they would not want to sell their shares in their corporation or in any other way dispose of their 44,000,000 acres.
But now, as if to make the chess game more demanding, Congress also encouraged the establishment of some two hundred subsidiary corporations which would control village lands and properties, and this meant that the large majority of Natives belonged to two corporations. For example, up in Desolation Point, Vladimir Afanasi belonged to the enormous Arctic Slope Regional Corporation with its vast holdings, but he also had shares in Desolation Management, the minute corporation which handled business affairs for that village. Early in the new regime it became clear to him that sometimes the interests of the smaller corporation did not coincide with those of the bigger, of which it was a legal part, and he told his friends one day when they were far out on the ice hunting walrus: 'It would take an engineer from Massachusetts Tech and a manager from the Harvard School of Business to unravel these complexities.'
Even though he'd had two years at the University of Alaska at Fairbanks, he felt himself incapable of plotting the course his two corporations should take: 'And I wonder if any other Eskimos are clever enough to do so with theirs.' The walrus hunters considered this for some time as they watched the icy sea, and one said: 'In twenty years our kids can learn, if somebody gives them the right kind of education,' to which Vladimir responded: 'They'll be the most exciting twenty years in Eskimo history.'
WHEN AVARICIOUS LAWYERS AND BUSINESS MANAGERS IN the Lower Forty-eight learned that the Native tribes of Alaska, often illiterate and uneducated, were going to have nearly a billi
on dollars, plus all that land, to kick around, they developed a passionate interest in the arctic, and carpetbaggers from places like Boston, Tulsa, Phoenix and Los Angeles began to appear in remote villages, eager to guide the Natives through the intricacies of their new responsibilities, while collecting gigantic fees for doing so.
One fledgling with a bachelor's degree from Dartmouth in 1973 and a first-class law degree from Yale in 1976 had no intention of spending his life in Alaska; indeed, it was doubtful that he had spoken the name outside of grade-school geography, let alone given it serious attention. But when in the summer of 1976 he passed the bar examination with very high marks, his father gave him as a present the choice of a new car or a hunting trip into northern Canada. Jeb Keeler, who had prowled the New Hampshire hills north of Dartmouth in search of white-tailed deer, opted for the Canadian adventure. Heading due north from Dartmouth, he landed on Canada's remote Baffin Island, where he planned to shoot himself a caribou.
Probing boldly into the tundra north of the Arctic Circle, he accomplished nothing, but one night in July when there was no night he was lounging in the bar of the hunting lodge at Pond Inlet when a big, florid man wearing expensive hunting gear took a seat at his table without asking permission and said: 'Son, you look mighty glum.'
'I am. Came up here to get me a caribou ... nothing.'
The uninvited visitor slapped the table and said: 'Remarkable! I came up here to do the same thing. And I got nothing. Name's Poley Markham, Phoenix, Arizona.'
'Somebody around here got a caribou. Look at it hanging over there.'
'That's mine,' Markham said proudly. 'But to bag it, I had to fly over to Brodeur Peninsula.'
'Where's that?'
'Smart distance due west.' He leaned back, studied his caribou, and said expansively:
'That could be one of the most important animals I've ever taken.' When Jeb asked what that meant, the Phoenix man called for a round of drinks and launched enthusiastically into a remarkable monologue which had so many unexpected twists that Jeb was enthralled:
'As you've found out, people say that caribou are very common. They're everywhere.
But not when you want to shoot one. And they certainly weren't common when I tried to bag one in Alaska. Years ago up on the Yukon River, I determined to get me the Big Eight, and I had seven of their heads on my wall in Phoenix, what hunters call "the hard ones,"but damned if I could get the eighth, the easiest one of all, the caribou.
'The Alaskan Big Eight? Wonderful mix, a challenge for any serious hunter. The two tremendous bears, polar and Kodiak. I got them early on. Fierce effort in each case, but I did nab them. Then the two big land animals, moose and arctic muskox, difficult but it can be done. Then the two great mountain animals, maybe the most demanding of all, the goat and the Dall sheep. That's six, leaving the most difficult, the walrus, and the easiest, the caribou.
'Well, I flew up to a great site way north of the Arctic Circle, place called Desolation Point where there's a hunter I recommend if you ever head that way. Excellent fellow, Eskimo with a Russian name, Vladimir Afanasi. He had helped me get my polar bear and now he was going to lead me out to the walruses. Four difficult days, but I knocked down a majestic beast, and as we packed the head and tusks for shipping I said offhandedly: "Now I'll finish off with a caribou and I'll have my Big Eight."
'You know, I roamed northern Alaska searching for that damned caribou, never saw one. Someone said there were half a million caribou roaming Canada and Alaska, and I never even saw one except from a plane until the other day on Brodeur Peninsula.'
Jeb said: 'You call them the Alaskan Big Eight, but you shot your caribou in Canada,' and Markham said: 'It's the animal, not the place where you shoot it. I could well have been in Russian waters when I got my polar bear.'
Pleased by the manner in which young Keeler manifested his interest in hunting, Markham asked: 'Did you say you just passed your bar exams? From Yale? High marks? Young man, if I were you, you know what I'd do? I'd get on the first plane and fly to Alaska.
And since you seem addicted to hunting, when I got there I'd keep right on flying till I got to Desolation Point.'
'Look, I'm just starting, and you're talking big bucks.'
'I am talking big bucks.'
'Nobody earns big money hunting. They spend big money.'
'Who's talking about hunting?"
'We are.'
'No,' Markham said. 'We're talking about Alaska, and after you earn your big bucks in Alaska, you spend your vacations collecting your Big Eight,' and as he uttered these words Jeb Keeler, twenty-five years old, blond, athletic, unmarried, visualized himself on the ice off Desolation Point hunting either bear or walrus and on the high ridges tracking Dall sheep and the exquisite white mountain goat. But how he would pay for such adventure before his fifties he could not guess.
Then the Phoenix man explained: 'Starting in 1967, I served as consultant to an ad hoc Senate committee on Alaskan Native land claims. Got my law degree at Virginia and always had an interest in Indian affairs. Point of my story, in 1971, Congress passed a land settlement act so complicated that no ordinary human being will ever be able to understand it, let alone administer it. On the evening of the day it was signed into law some of us lawyers met for dinner, and the oldest man present raised his glass for a toast: "To the law enacted today. It'll give us lawyers employment for the rest of the century."He was right. You ought to go up there and carve yourself a piece of the cake.'
'Why aren't you up there?' Keeler asked with the forthrightness that characterized his behavior either on the hunting ground or in class.
'I am. I'm consultant to one of the real big entities facing the Arctic Ocean. I spend three, four weeks trying to sort things out for them. Bond issues and the like.
Then three weeks hunting and fishing. Then back home to Phoenix.'
'Can they afford to pay you? A bunch of Eskimos?'
'Son, have you heard of Prudhoe Bay? Oil! Those Eskimos are going to have so much money they won't know what to do with it. They'll need men like you and me to guide them.'
'Is this for real?'
'I'm doing it. So are several of the team I worked with in Washington. The Native corporations are flowing with money, and smart lawyers like you and me are entitled to our share.'
Markham was a big, fleshy man with what looked to be a flabby physique. But he loved the rigors of hunting and surprised the more athletic types when in the field, for he could outlast most of them when tracking an animal he wanted, and now, in pursuit of his hobby, he made a startling proposal: 'Keeler, I like you. I can see you understand hunting, and I'd be proud to help you bag your first caribou. I've been working hard in Alaska and I'd enjoy another trip into the field. Want to come along?'
He surprised Jeb by volunteering that he, Markham, would hire a local guide with a float plane and fly north across open sea to Bylot Island, where caribou could be expected at the foot of the glacier. It was a flight of great beauty if you liked desolate places and a feeling that the world was about to end; as they flew over the main part of Baffin Island they spotted several great herds of caribou, and Jeb said: 'How can there be so many down there, and so few when I want to find one?'
Markham explained: 'That's the lure of hunting. Wait till you go out for your mountain goat.' He turned to study his young partner, then asked: 'You are going to shoot for the Big Eight, aren't you? Finest challenge in all of hunting, I think.'
'How about lions and tigers and elephants?'
'Hell, anybody can tramp through warm jungles on a safe safari. But you pit yourself against the arctic, against the Alaskan winter to get your polar bear, that's man stuff.'
When they landed, the guide took them to an area where he had often seen caribou during their yearly migrations:
"They swim right across that channel, or wait till it freezes. Fantastic animals.'
On the third day, while the two lawyers were some distance from their tent, they came upon a fi
ne buck with superior antlers, and Jeb was about to fire, but Markham restrained him: 'Good, but not perfect. Let's move quietly over there,' and when they did, they found just what this experienced sportsman had wagered: a huge buck stood at the edge of a small herd, and Markham whispered: 'Now!' With a perfect shot, learned at Dartmouth while hunting deer, Keeler dropped his trophy and tried to look nonchalant while the guide took a Polaroid of him posing beside it.
It was that photograph which determined Jeb Keeler's future, for as he was examining it during the flight back to Pond Inlet, he told Markham: 'I'd like to rack up my Big Eight,' and Markham said: 'If you come to Alaska, I'll help you get started.
But the rules are a little tougher now. Guys from the Lower Forty-eight like you and me, we can't shoot walrus or polar bear or seals any longer. They're protected for the subsistence hunting of the Natives.'
"Then why did you tell me about them?' and Markham laid down the basic law of life in the north: 'In Alaska, there are ways to get around unpleasant rules that hem you in.'
'I'd like the challenge,' Jeb said, but Markham warned: 'The big-paying jobs with the major corporations have been taken, but you'll find lots of opportunities with the village corporations. Like that one at Desolation Point. I'll let Afanasi know that you're coming,' and by the time the plane landed, it was agreed that Keeler would put his affairs in order, kiss the girls from Wellesley and Smith goodbye, and head north to start his law practice in Alaska.
But on his return trip to the States, with the caribou head in the belly of the plane, he detoured to New Haven to consult with the man who had steered him through the law school and the bar exams. Professor Katz was one of those Jewish intellectuals who saw law as an interlocking of past human experience and future aspiration, and before Jeb could finish describing the Alaskan Natives' settlement, Katz stopped him: 'I followed that through the Congress. Disgraceful to make it so complicated.